


A choking rose

by jperalta



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Beating, Bruises, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:29:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jperalta/pseuds/jperalta
Summary: Peter is having some bad thoughts. Read at your own discretion.





	A choking rose

He sat in the corner of his room, feeling like his fingers had a mind of their own. He wanted so desperately to dig his nails into his forearm and tear down his veins. In the silence he could imagine all of the screaming - his screaming, his family screaming, his friends - everyone. He could see the pain in their eyes from moments that had happened and moments that hadn't. God, it was all happening again, all at once. 

He tried as hard as he could to make his mind think of something else - something less terrifying, but he looked around the room and his eyes fell on his wall mirror. He saw visions of himself slamming his head into it, over and over again until there were shards of glass everywhere, until the blood pooled around his feet and he eventually fainted or something else. The sight of the violence was so strong in his head and it felt like an overwhelming temptation, like someone else was showing him a clip of what could be. The idea of the pain was so strong that he could almost feel it, and he swore it felt good. It felt almost like a relief. His imagination grew stronger and he kept allowing his mind to repeat the images in his head. There was no physical harm done in allowing himself to fantasize - even if it made him feel like he was going absolutely insane and that he belonged in the hospital, and maybe that was ultimately the truth. 

He was torn between wanting to be alone and hopelessly craving for someone else - anyone else - to barge into his room, hold him in their arms, ask what was wrong, and try to help as much as they could. But no one came, and his brain felt like there was electricity going through it, so he rested his fingernails lightly over one of the blue veins running through his arm. It was so easy. All he had to do was push down as hard as he could and pull, and rely on his brain not to make his body stop. He wasn't even thinking about whether or not it would kill him - all he was thinking about was how much it would hurt, and how much he wanted it. He built it up in his mind as some sort of drug and he was starting to be unable to imagine himself alive without the pain he felt he needed. 

He cuffed his hands around his ears, pulled his legs in tighter towards his chest, and put his chin on his knees. Maybe he could curl himself into so small a ball that he could cease to exist - if only that was how this worked. He felt his hands ball up into fists and he squeezed them as tightly as he could. The pinch of his nails on his palms felt right for a bit, but didn't feel like enough. He stretched out his legs and stared at his white thighs. There were scratches on them from earlier, small red marks lining the surface. He looked out the window and saw the sun setting behind a nearby building, birds sitting on a wire, pink spreading over the sky. He could hear people yelling outside. The streets sounded so far away. He didn't care that the tears were running down his cheeks now.

He looked back down to his legs and felt the energy welling up inside his hands again. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and turned away, nearly disgusted. He held his right fist over his leg, staring at it for a bit longer. Then he brought it down with a hard punch. It hurt and rattled him a bit, but he drew his fist back and brought it down again, then again, until the one spot of his leg was red and beginning to bruise. He put his hand behind himself and leaned against it, as if trying to conceal what he had done. He was still crying but for whatever reason beating himself up had helped to relieve something. 

He used a chair to pull himself up, and it hurt to put pressure on his leg, so he let himself fall into his bed. The blankets fell on top of him and what he had done was covered. He'd just have to make sure not to wear shorts for a bit, or go swimming, or change in front of anyone. But then again, he wasn't sure if he wanted someone to notice. Half of him thought he had done that to get someone to notice. Again it was the split between wanting to be alone and wanting to be comforted. He didn't know what to do except brush the tears off his face, fold himself further into his bed, and allow himself to fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Agnes" by Glass Animals, which is a song that probably upsets me the most.


End file.
